


sweet like a honeycomb tree, the bird came to me

by sinningjul (Julx3tte)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-OT3, Threesome - F/F/M, and talk about feelings during war, how to fix burnout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/sinningjul
Summary: ot3 - merciegridvain sort-of-established sylvgrid, burned out mercedes, and a whole lot of emotions and navigating relationships around sex. I present - the bird.#thiskillsthefrog.Mercedes is no prude, and her relationship to sex is, for the most part, nascent. She’s had experience, and she knows what she likes, but she rarely seeks it out.Now, though, she’d rather bury the thoughts of her failure to bring Emile back to her - to them, to her family, to her family here - than to bury the way Ingrid’s breath has found it’s way next to Mercedes’ ear.She pulls the shorter blonde woman by the arm as soon as the meeting’s over, catching the way Ingrid smiles off to the side as they exit the tent and step into the cold air of the Faerghus winter.Sylvain watches the pair slip away from the war tent, Mercedes’ arm wrapped tightly around Ingrid’s, and he can’t pull his eyes away.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 28
Kudos: 52





	sweet like a honeycomb tree, the bird came to me

**Author's Note:**

> please. drink water and be near a small body of water dear LORD.

Mercedes watches the professor go through the after-mission report with a heavy weight in her chest. It’s a chronological report, compiling battalion scouts’ perspectives along with each of the commander’s decisions - they were all supposed to learn or find vulnerabilities or at least craft a story around the battle they had.

It wasn’t a particularly complicated battle, but Mercedes makes herself look anywhere but the tactician’s map anway. It’s strung up at the front of the war tent and filled with pins marking everyone’s battle positions. The room is full, but most of the others have their back or sides turned to her; she’d taken a seat in the back of the cramped table intentionally to avoid having to look at any of her allies.

Felix and Dedue sat at the front, and Annette was standing off to the side of the room, pacing. Ashe and Dimitri were closer to the wings of the table doing their best to pay attention, and Sylvain sat on the opposite side of Mercedes, eyes stealing glances to the back of the room.

Ingrid, though, is next to her, squeezed in close enough that Mercedes can see her chest rise and fall as the woman breathes deep, slow breaths. It’s a welcome distraction.

The guilt that’s hung around Mercedes’ neck has mostly dissipated by now, replaced instead with the relief that Emile’s attacks hadn’t felled any of her allies. Both Sylvain and Ingrid were both still standing, breathing and here.

The incident in the last battle was entirely her fault. Her concentration lapsed for a moment and it was almost a moment too much. The professor moves the pins around, signalling that she was about to go over the near-fatal error, and Mercedes feels her body tense in anticipation. 

To her side, Ingrid notices; a pair of soft, cold hands find their way into hers, squeezing once to say,  _ it’s okay _ . Mercedes blanks when the professor mentions Emile’s name.  _ The Death Knight _ . The ominous presence in every one of the Blue Lion’s battles since they began their push out of Faerghus, and Mercedes’ brother. The mere mention of Emile sends a cold wave to the pit of her stomach; Mercedes has lost soldiers to him, and she’s nearly lost her friends now too.

And it was her fault, to let herself be distracted. To lose composure in the moments they needed her most. Ingrid’s hands, somehow, weave tighter between her fingers and Mercedes can feel the caring, cerulean gaze to her side. She refuses to look, wracked with guilt and nerves and a hundred other things she plans to parse out later, but Ingrid is persistent.

As the professor drones on, Ingrid tugs their hands gently into her lap. Mercedes lets herself be pulled closer, until her periphery is filled with Ingrid’s blonde hair and strawberry scent.

She smells earthy. A contrast to the way she spends each battle in the sky, Ingrid’s presence is grounding and calming and good.

There’s a thought that lingers in the back of Mercedes’ mind the rest of the meeting, and she does her best to push it down, deep into the throes of the things she refused to think about. But Ingrid shifts Mercedes’ hands so that her palms clutch the soft, pale skin of Ingrid’s thigh underneath her skirt and Mercedes can’t help but ask herself:

If she parted this woman’s legs, would she find the same delicious scent of earth? Would it taste sweet, like berries, and would her fruit cling around the edges of Mercedes’ mouth?

Mercedes is no prude, and her relationship to sex is, for the most part, nascent. She’s had experience, and she knows what she likes, but she rarely seeks it out.

Now, though, she’d rather bury the thoughts of her failure to bring Emile back to her - to them, to her family, to her family here - than to bury the way Ingrid’s breath has found it’s way next to Mercedes’ ear. 

She pulls the shorter blonde woman by the arm as soon as the meeting’s over, catching the way Ingrid smiles off to the side as they exit the tent and step into the cold air of the Faerghus winter. 

* * *

Sylvain watches the pair slip away from the war tent, Mercedes’ arm wrapped tightly around Ingrid’s, and he can’t pull his eyes away.

Ingrid’s cape flaps as they hurry through the tent doors. Mercedes’ other hand is firm on Ingrid’s shoulder, and there’s a smile shared between the two that sends an aching frustration through Sylvain.

It doesn’t mean anything to him, though. This isn’t any different than when Annie pulls Mercedes away for a side conversation, or when the professor and Ingrid walk to the stables to talk about pegasus strategy.

But there’s a piece of his heart that’s tugged away because he knows that look. He’s shared it with Ingrid more than once, and he’s the one that should have sent the subtle message to  _ get out of here _ and walk briskly back to his tent and fuck the daylights out of each other.

He’s caught onto all the little things during the meeting. The glances, stolen from him and given to Mercedes. The touches the older woman finds as Ingrid took the seat next to her.

It’s not that he’s jealous. Of all people to understand, Sylvain gets the need for comfort without promise. They haven’t shared those kinds of words yet, he and Ingrid; it’s too late in the war for that and there’s too much left to resolve before any of those feelings can form - even the obvious ones between the professor and Dimitri.

But Sylvain thinks about the way Ingrid was sighing his name into her own hand, trying to muffle herself in the middle of the night, and feels an isolating pang resonate through him.

For a moment he thinks about the fact that they were deployed just far enough away from a town that he can’t sneak off and find someone else to warm his bed. He’s not sure he would, even if it were possible. The first time Ingrid found her way to him - or he’d found her way to her, they were both almost killed by a rogue spell cast from a distance. 

Felix deposited them in his tent and shut the flaps to let them sleep and they curled up against each other so tightly that it was hard to breathe. Since then, Sylvain’s barely thought about any other women; he’s sure Ingrid hasn’t been with anyone else, either. Until now.

Sylvain’s always thought highly of Mercedes, though, and if anyone else were to take Ingrid and bed her, he almost doesn’t mind that it’s her. As a friend, she is a reliable bastion of strength, and he’s always only wanted for her to know that. As a woman, she is prohibitively witful, finding ways to block his advances with grace.

There’s a satisfied look in her eyes as she leaves with Ingrid that contrasts the sad tone she’s carried with her ever since they realized that her brother was the Death Knight. 

Felix taps him on the shoulder and he breaks out of it. The other man is staring at him patiently, flitting his eyes at the door.

“You’re with me tomorrow,” Felix says, clapping Sylvain on the back of the shoulder. “Don’t get too far ahead of me.”

Sylvain just nods. “Just get on a horse already, Fel.”

He’s been trying to get Felix to be a bow knight for months, to the point where Felix finally put on a saddle and tried shooting on the move.

Sylvain and Ingrid tried to teach Felix how to keep his core activated and watched the man nearly fall over a few times before he sent them away to practice without their laughter. It was at that point that they’d snuck away to fuck inside of Sylvain’s tent before anyone else could ask where they were.

“Just clear the path for me,” Felix says curtly, and walks away, offering another touch to Sylvain’s shoulder and chasing off in whatever direction Annette last walked towards.

It’s cold outside, but inside Sylvain’s tent, it's too warm. He sheds his coat and his sweater as soon as he gets inside, wiping off the sweat on his face and can’t help but think about what was happening two tents over. 

Was Ingrid sweating now, with Mercedes? He tries to imagine them, tangled together, and stops himself before he can get further than the image of them disappearing behind the tent flap, arm in arm.

Sylvain forces himself to sleep, face down, cock pressed against his belly, aching for something he can’t have.

* * *

Ingrid’s never been with a woman before. 

It’s not that she hasn’t been open - but between keeping up appearances at the monastery and being away from anyone but suitors vying for her hand for half a decade, she hasn’t had much of a chance to try. She wasn't even sure she’d like it at all - until Mercedes curled her hand inside of her a minute ago. She’s been begging Mercie’s name ever since.

Since then, the only thing Ingrid’s been aware of is the way Mercedes’ hot breath has been against her neck, and the woman’s fingers hidden under Ingrid’s skirt. They hadn’t even bothered to strip - the look on Mercedes’ eyes were too desperate and as soon as they’d gotten into her tent, she pushed Ingrid against one of the tall posts and kissed her.

Mercedes’ kiss is soft and commanding. The opposite of what Ingrid expected from her, knowing what she was like in battle. During their campaigns Mercedes filled the gaps on the battlefield - making herself scarce when there was danger and offering protection and healing as needed.

In the bedroom, Ingrid melts under her lead. Mercedes parts her legs, which are shaking so badly that she’s not sure she can hold herself up, and puts one hand on her sternum to hold her against the tent pole to keep her steady. She strips her hat and her lips bite the soft flesh above Ingrid’s collarbones, making her wet before Mercedes even touches her.

Mercedes knows how to touch a woman so that she’s just inches away from coming undone, Ingrid thinks. Mercedes has touched her thighs in the past - to heal gashes and soothe bruises - but the way her fingernails scratch the soft skin on the inside of her leg, leaving red lines pointing right to her wetness, and Ingrid wonders if Mercedes has thought this of her before.

Voice soft and breath quick, Ingrid comes hard after another minute, abs straining hard to keep her standing as the orgasm crashes through every one of her senses. It’s hard to breathe - Ingrid can feel the sweat forming on the side of her neck, and Mercedes’ touch hasn’t relented one bit. As soon as Ingrid catches her breath, the other woman slips Ingrid’s panties off, shoves them into Ingrid’s mouth, and gets down on her knees.

It’s only the force of her back against the wooden beam that keeps her standing as Mercedes coaxes another orgasm out of Ingrid, whose voice is muffled by her makeshift gag. 

Mercedes’ tongue is better than Sylvain’s, but it’s not fair to compare the two. 

Sylvain has his own merits. He’s the only other person she’s fucked since this whole thing started, and there was a familiarity they shared that came from knowing each other for most of their lives. He knows how to make her feel powerful and strong, and how to ask her for exactly what she needs.

But he’s never done this for her before - each time he’d taken her with his mouth, it was Ingrid laid out on a bed, comfortable and relaxed. Mercedes has her tense, body straining to stay upright. Ingrid can feel her muscles burn and has to fight to relax enough that she can focus on the way Mercedes’ tongue traces every ridge and fold, teasing and tempting and taking. 

Ingrid burns the sight into her memory. The sight of Mercedes on her knees, neck stretched out to capture every drop of wetness that’s soaking Ingrid’s thighs, eyes shut peacefully as she laps at every contour between Ingrid’s legs. Mercedes’ grip around her hips is tight, and it doesn’t take long before Ingrid’s shaking again, teeth biting down against the cotton in her mouth to keep her from screaming in pleasure.

Sylvain’s never made her feel this way before, but she wonders how he’d react if he could watch; Mercedes carries Ingrid over to the bedroll, lays her flat and pins her arms above her head, and rides her face until Mercedes is mewling into her own hand.

* * *

Ingrid’s sleeping on her bedroll, face still flushed and pink, as Mercedes stands and puts her clothes back on. She doesn’t mind the sleeping woman on her bed, but it might be wise, she thinks, to find a meal and be seen in public again before Ingrid wakes. She steps out into the cold and takes the long way to the rations tent. 

She hasn’t meant to seduce Ingrid. She certainly doesn’t mind, but the thought of relationships have been so far and away out of her mind that it’s nearly impossible to recall the last time she’s thought about a friend in any way more than that. There are two kinds of people in the world: those that she has a duty to, to heal and watch and care for; and those that mean to hurt her friends.

It’s simpler that way, at least, though Mercedes knows that things aren’t as black and white as that. But during a war shades of grey are painfully abundant, and if she were being honest with herself, this desire for simplicity is less of a failure of her moral backbone and more of an acknowledgement of just how shitty things have become.

She’s a pious woman, and dedicated, and the thought of even being married off to some noble and left to manage a household in some remote part of Faerghus was never an idea she despised. Unlike Ingrid, in that regard, and Annette, but Mercedes’ priority has always been those closest to her.

Part of faith is to care for those who have gathered close to you regardless of how you feel about them. Mercedes believes this enough that, she told herself, it would be possible to love someone that married her for her crest alone.

This year, those that she has been gathered to are here at camp: Dimitri, and Dedue, Felix, and Ashe, and Annie. And Ingrid and Sylvain.

It has been a simple year and Mercedes has been thankful for it - until Emile’s shadow returned to haunt them.

She watched the ballista narrowly miss Ingrid, caught the look that she and Sylvain shared, and paled as they charged the black figure of her brother together.

Emile survived and escaped, but the thought of choosing between her friends and her brother made her blood run so cold that she sent an arc of _ Thoron _ past them and through the nearest enemy battalion. Since then, Mercedes has needed a way to manage the shades of grey in her life.

Ingrid was the one to make the first move, brushing her knuckles against Mercedes’ thighs as they sat and talked during the meeting, and she couldn’t help respond. Part of piety is to maintain vigilance over yourself, and Mercedes has been at the end of her wick for weeks. 

It didn’t take much to take charge and invite Ingrid to join her for some excuse or another and take her as soon as they made it inside. It’s the least joy she’s felt in months but some joy is better than nothing, she reasons.

Mercedes finds a warm bowl of soup and brings another back to her tent to offer Ingrid, hoping it meant nothing that Sylvain was watching the pair of them as they left the war tent, arm in arm and that she hadn’t stumbled upon some unspoken grey between Sylvain and Ingrid. 

* * *

Mercedes is sitting on a makeshift bench after the latest battle when Sylvain slides into the seat next to her. He’s not very quiet - his heavy armor clanks as he walks, alerting her to his presence. The dark metal is still covered in blood, though not his own; she’d seen to that earlier in the fight. 

They’re far enough away from the battlefield that it’s safe, so he takes off his helmet and looks at her.

“Hello, divine,” he says, with a lick in his voice that raises the hair on the back of Mercedes’ neck. “Thanks for earlier.”

Emile was on the battlefield again, haunting them like a spectre. This time, none of the Lions came close enough for a fight; he simply observed the battle and retreated before she could fire a spell in his direction and remind him that she was waiting for him. Sylvain covered for her momentary lapse in concentration, taking a hit meant for her; she’d healed him immediately and they continued on.

“You were the one that took the hit for me,” she replies with a shrug.

With the way he’s sitting, she’s sure that Sylvain is planning on hitting on her. It’s happened more than once during their friendship, and each time Mercedes has rebuffed him with a question about his intentions and a story about her own upbringing. She almost does the same again before he even begins when his eyes turn sincere and his gloved hand reaches for hers.

“It’s okay, you know,” he starts. “To be conflicted about your brother.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “I thought you’ve come here to proposition me.”

Sylvain smirks. “I’m getting there. But as your friend, I just wanted to say…”

“Thank you Sylvain. But shouldn’t you be with Ingrid?”

Her jab earns a questioning look.

“Shouldn’t you?” he asks, and Mercedes blushes at the thought.

“I… think that was just a one time thing,” she replies, folding her hands over themselves on her lap.

“Do you remember,” he says, gazing out past the field where logistics officers are rolling wagons by horseback, cleaning up the battlefield and reclaiming the fort they’d taken over. “When I stopped you on your way to pray?”

She does. It was a long time ago, but she remembers the way he hurriedly caught her attention, and the conversation they had about house Bartels. She hadn’t meant to say so much, then, but at the mention of her crest, Sylvain’s face looked sympathetic enough that she opened up.

It was the first time, other than her conversations with Annette, that someone at the monastery had cared enough to ask about her story. 

“Yes, what about it?” she replies.

“Will you show me now? How to pray.”

Mercedes narrows her eyes at Sylvain’s invitation. For all of his seductive prowess, he’s always left enough space for her to decline gracefully. She appreciates that there was enough space for her to decline gracefully. He isn’t so brutish as to be up front, though she wonders whether that would be the case when they got to his bedroll.

Still… there are greys for her to manage and greys for others and she’s not sure if this is one of those. 

“Am I getting in the middle of something between you two?” she asks.

“Us two?”

“You and Ingrid.”

The mention of her name is enough for Mercedes to catch a hidden wince in Sylvain’s face. Whatever is happening between the two, whatever can happen for them before Enbarr falls and the fighting stops, it runs deep. 

Mercedes wonders what it’s like, to love and be loved unconditionally like the two of them. She loves Annette, who’s probably the person she’s known the longest, but not in the same way that Felix loves her; and Emile remains in the complicated in-between of love and worry and enemy. But whatever is between Sylvain and Ingrid is as old as can be.

She exhales the thought while Sylvain blinks away the evidence of whatever thought he’s having about Ingrid.

“And what of it?” is his reply. 

She considers the consequences. 

Another tryst at camp won’t change anything. They’re all consenting adults, and he wouldn’t offer otherwise. Sylvain may have made a reputation as a philanderer, but the man has integrity. 

She hates to consider herself the other woman for either Sylvain or Ingrid though, but there’s a comfort she senses in the way Sylvain’s hand gently grips her own that she thinks she might need right now. 

Sylvain’s used a hundred women in the past to keep him from his own emotions; who was she to decline to use him to do the same? She thinks she might need that too, and it feels far too lonely to decline and to sleep alone.

Not when the pair of them have turned their attention to her; the way Ingrid yielded to her touch and the way Sylvain’s gaze pierces into her now. She suspects that they’re not merely using each other, hopes enough that it’s true and nods.

“I suppose not,” she says, finally.

“Then let’s go.”

* * *

Sylvain helps Mercedes strip before kissing her. It’s something he’s always wanted to do, to see the modesty fall away from her, in place of trust and intimacy. So he takes it slow, pulling her against his shirtless body and walking them slowly backwards to his bedroll.

His bed is set atop some spare crates and he’s lined the wood with hay, so the back of Mercedes’ calves bump into the makeshift bed, startling her and causing her to grab onto his torso.

Mercedes’ hands are cold. They dig into Sylvain’s side and grab his chest, and as his nipples harden he realizes that, maybe, Mercedes has been cold since before the winter’s hit.

He kisses her again, slowly, and lets his tongue gently slide against Mercedes’ bottom lip as his hands slide up her sides and move to cup her breasts. He has to lean down to kiss her, and Sylvain wants to lift her up to him; to grab her under the ribs and hold her up and kiss her so hard that she forgets her own name.

It’s the least he can do to repay the kindness she’s shown him and the rest of the Lions. He wants to lavish her, to worship her, but Mercedes reaches around to cup his ass and pulls him against her body before he can generate enough lift in his legs. His cock is hard and flush against her stomach as her hands run up to his shoulders and descend down his side, back to the sides of his hip.

Before he can do anything about it, Mercedes backs up, sits on the bed, and puts her mouth so close to his cock that Sylvain almost loses it at the sight. Her eyes are pale blue and staring at him, begging him to weave his hands into her hair and push himself between her lips. 

It's a horrible thought. He’s never thought of Mercedes as more than a woman - pious and strong, yes, but never an object and certainly not a deity. 

Mercedes’ mouth puckers and she slowly, terribly slowly touches his head with her lips. Her warm breath sends a shudder through Sylvain’s spine and he has to stop himself right there from shoving his cock down her throat. His leg muscles stiffen and he squeezes his glutes tight so that his hips stay statue still.

This isn't where he’s meant to take this. Sylvain is not a selfish lover - despite what others may assume. He is attentive, and careful; he is slow and methodical and oh so gentle, and Mercedes deserves the best of the things he can do for her.

He thinks, for a moment, about how Ingrid must have treated the woman during their tryst. Ingrid is a rough and demanding lover, and surely she asked much of Mercedes. Sylvain wants to even the tally, to give Mercedes a soft and sweet and tender love that is worthy of her.

But the way she looks at him, sitting on his bed while he stands over her, one hand wrapped around her cock and lips pursed and tilted for him sends a wild, frenzied urge through Sylvain’s mind and he acts before he can think.

His hand bunches the hair around the base of Mercedes’ head and he drags her lips over his cock until she gasps and releases a throaty moan that tells him that this is exactly what she meant for him to do.

For all of the ways Mercedes holds them together in battle, in the bedroom she is pliant. She takes Sylvain into her mouth as deep and as roughly as he asks, and voices no complaint save for the sound of gagging and accommodating. She has the audacity to smile when he pulls out to let her catch her breath, and the growing coil at the base of his cock almost claims him immediately.

He kisses her on the forehead before he loses control, and pushes her back onto the bed. His hands guide her hips so that she’s on all fours, and he whispers into her ear as his hands weave into her hair again.

“You’ve been so good to us, Mercie,” he says. “Let me take care of you for once”

He fucks her from behind until Mercedes can’t hold her shoulders up by the forearms anymore; she sinks into his pillow, head tilted so she can breathe, lips still wet from and sticky from his cock. Sylvain watches the ripples of force through her hips and thighs and times his thrusts so that Mercedes can breathe in between the loud groans that escape her throat. 

Ingrid’s never let him take her like this. Sylvain feels mad, like his mind sees red and pink and the pale skin of Mercedes’ back and he grabs her hair tighter to anchor himself through the way the sound of her muffled moans fill his tent and his ears. 

Mercedes comes twice - once when he reaches a hand around her hips to help, and again when she does it herself, cheek pressed against the bedsheets, other hand stifling the sound of her climax.

Sylvain’s not sure how he holds on until then. Maybe it’s the overwhelming desire to make sure that Mercedes is getting what she needs. Another part of him wonders if this was how Ingrid felt - a confusing, disorienting worry that Ingrid might not be okay with this, and that he might lose the both of them. The thought drops through his body like a stone. 

He was not, Sylvain realizes as Mercedes comes down from riding herself and him to a finish, jealous that Ingrid and Mercedes had been together. Not with Mercedes here, close to him and baring the ways she’s needed someone else to hold her and touch her after their last few months.

No, he was jealous that they did it without him. Even now, he wishes Ingrid were here watching. There’s attention and care that Ingrid can surely give to Mercedes that he couldn’t, and he wants it for the both of them. Ingrid must have picked up on it too, earlier.

Before he can think any more about Ingrid, Sylvain feels the familiar roll in the bottom of his abdomen and pulls out, breathless and panting. 

“In your mouth,” he says simply, and Mercedes obediently turns, propped up on her hands and knees, and tilts her head so that he can see the column of her throat and a hungry look in her pale blue eyes. She opens her mouth for him and takes him in between her lips. Sylvain comes immediately, caressing Mercedes’ forehead with his hand and using the other to steady himself as he shakes and quivers.

Mercedes asks him a question after they clean up and she’s pressed her back against his chest on the bed, and he’s sure of the answer before he speaks.

“Am I selfish for this?” she says, with a tone that tells him that she’s more scared than she means to let on.

“No,” is his firm reply.  _ Not if I’m not. _

* * *

Ingrid’s relationship to sex isn’t as complicated as Sylvain’s is. She’s seen him implode through the years, using his body to drown out whatever emotions he’s feeling, and she’s seen him come home with bruises and scratch marks and all sorts of small injuries as a result.

Her own approach to her body is much more straightforward: she needs to hold those that matter close to her.

It’s why she and Sylvain got together in the first place. Two decades of fighting together nearly came to an end in a second and she couldn’t bear the thought of him ever being so far away from her again. It’s the same reason she sought out Mercedes - the older woman was probably like her. She cared for them all so much and yet kept herself so far away; Ingrid wanted to give Mercedes a closeness that she couldn’t offer Sylvain. Not yet.

In the months they’d been sleeping together, Sylvain has been restraining himself. She’s seen the marks and the scars on his body, but he’s never moved an inch more than Ingrid’s asked. There’s a part of her that regrets not being able to offer Sylvain more than the way she rides him and makes him beg her name. 

But she’s inexperienced and sex is too close to her heart to offer any more than the few words they share in between them - and the war is too close to the end for any of those.

Ingrid’s tending the pegasi when she sees them walking back to camp, and knows immediately from the look on Sylvain’s face where they’re headed.

She smiles to herself. It’s good that the pair of them can find what they need from each other. Sylvain’s a good lover, and Mercedes needs someone attentive to her needs. She suspects, too, that Mercedes’ rough edge will be good for Sylvain. 

Ingrid thinks about the way Mercedes handled her body with force and deftness and sighs. It would be easier without all of this fighting.

It would be easier if she could tell Sylvain that she loved him and she could pull Mercedes into their bed and tell her that they love her, too. It would be far better if Mercedes’ brother returned home and Dimitri didn’t need to chase after vengeance. There’s a million things that would make this all easier, and they’re all out of Ingrid’s control, and nothing pisses her off more than the fact that the only thing she can hold onto is her lance and her lovers and what little hope she can muster.

Ingrid finishes cleaning her horse and breaks two wooden lances in the training pit before she realizes that she’s even pissed in the first place.

Ingrid’s a woman that knows what she wants, and the thought of the two things she wants most together sends a pang of yearning through her. Would it even be possible to join them? 

She wonders if Sylvain was jealous enough to act, and if he’d accept what she’s been thinking about. It’s another thing they haven't put words to. She’s only slept with him until Mercedes, and she’s sure that Sylvain’s not been roaming towns with whatever young women he can find to bed him. Thus far he’s reserved his bed for her - the fighting has been too intense for anything else anyway.

But  _ when  _ would they put words to all of this? 

She breaks another lance when she realizes they wouldn’t have a chance to talk until after their next assault. They’ve just finished a battle and already they’re preparing to take another, a limited deployment that would reserve their slowest units in favor of an all out blitz. Mercedes would remain at camp, but she and Sylvain would deploy on opposite sides of the battlefield.

She walks into the rations tent and finds a meal and finds the company of some of the other Blue Lions for the rest of the afternoon to tamp herself down. 

* * *

Days later, Sylvain finds her out in a field shooting arrows at nothing in a futile attempt to work the frustration out of her body. She nearly rounds the bow on him when she hears his footsteps. But Sylvain’s loud, never quiet, and she can tell by the way he approaches that it's just him.

She lets the arrow fly out past some tree and turns to face him. He has a smug smile on his face and Ingrid can see the last battle’s worth of bruises up the side of his neck and she stands stiff and cold and bow dangling in her hands as Sylvain walks up to her.

“Hey Ing,” he says, and Ingrid levels a glare. He steps forward anyway. 

“It’s cold. You wanna get something to warm you up?”

She nods and follows him to the rations tent, where he passes her a bowl of reheated soup and puts two more down in front of her. Most of the others have tasks to attend to, so the small, covered bench section is empty. Ingrid holds the warm bowl against her hands until she can feel her fingertips again.

Sylvain knows her moods better than anyone. Ingrid’s entirely confident that he can read the frustration in her bones, the aching bitterness of the words she can’t seem to put together. Surely, doubtlessly Sylvain can see through the ways she’s tried to shut him out and keep him away.

Still, days holding in the bitterness of imagining Sylvain and Mercedes without her, she doubts whether or not he’s got the same words bubbling beneath his chest, and doubts whether those words are for her or not at all.

The silence between them is new.

He watches her with his hazel eyes, bowl in one hand and the hem of his shirt in the other. She caught it when she reached for the next bowl - the way his fist is gripped white knuckle tight, the way his arms are still underneath his coat.

Ingrid wonders where Mercedes is. She wishes the older woman were here, but this was a conversation that Ingrid and Sylvain needed to have first - something they needed to decide without relying on the way Mercedes’ presence would make their conversation far more simple.

She’s still not sure what she wants to say, and it pisses her off far more than not being able to say it.

What was there to say? 

_ I love you. I’m madly in love with you, and I want nothing else but you except that I want Mercedes, too; I want her here and I want you and I don’t know if you fucked her because I did or because you wanted her too. _

How would Sylvain even react, to hear those words come out of her mouth? Ingrid, stoic and chivalrous and of few words; the only woman whom Sylvain would beg for. _Sylvain, Mercie meets needs for me that you can’t, and I need both_ _of you._

She tilts her head back and downs the last bowl of soup, hastily wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve in frustration. An impossible conversation. She glares quietly at Sylvain until he slowly finishes his bowl of soup.

Then he nods back towards her tent and walks away, waiting for her to follow. 

* * *

Ingrid’s pissed and Sylvain thinks he might have ruined everything. He needs a reprieve from the way Ingrid is glaring at him, reading him, trying to see exactly what the hell mess Sylvain and his stupid womanizing has gotten him into.

He can’t even blame the fact that Ingrid did it first.

There’s been no rules to this, no promises. There’s an intense ache in his chest as he thinks about the possibility of having neither of them. He’s not entitled, but he wants it - he wants the way Ingrid knows him, has known him better than anyone else on the damn continent,  _ and _ he wants Mercedes to know that she’s not alone.

That Mercedes has the two of them, that they’ll take care of her.

He just hopes that the gap he’s laid between him and Ingrid isn’t the kind that can’t be overcome with words. It’s how he gets his way out of every mess with women - sweet talk until they can’t take it anymore and leave before he makes it all worse.

He can’t leave here, though, and he’s not sure he can make it worse. 

So he talks, guesses at what’s eating Ingrid up and tries to script it all out before they make it inside her tent.

Ingrid’s tent is smaller than his, and simpler. Luin is in a corner, propped up on a weapon rack, and she has a collection of saddles for her pegasus. Besides her armor though, and some clothes, there’s scarcely anything else in the room. There’s the single bedroll stacked on top of some hay that Ingrid sleeps in, and a few candles.

They’re barely inside the tent when he turns to face her, and she closes the front flap before she looks at him.

He’s expecting the same pissed look she’s carried since he went out to find her, but it’s gone. Instead, Ingrid looks worried. Not many others would be able to tell. Ingrid keeps all of her emotions at bay when she can, and lets them out when no one is looking. At a glance she’s got the same stone faced look, but he can see in her eyes, that she’s sad and apprehensive and nearing tears, and it’s all it takes for the words to burst out of him, unplanned and crude.

“Ing, I- shit. I’m sorry, If I crossed a line, fuck, I-”

She cuts him off with a hard glare before he can finish saying it and keeps it exactly long enough for him to shut up. Ingrid blinks back tears and pushes him back so that she can sit up against her trunk.

“Don’t say it. Not yet, Sylvain.” Her voice is a whisper. “You can’t. Not until we take Enbarr.”

Sylvain nods. “Okay.” 

He moves to sit on the trunk next to her, thigh against hers, and they sit quietly for another moment before it’s too much and he has to talk.

“Are you really pissed at me?” he asks, keeping his voice put together as best as he can.

She digs her nails into her palm before replying. “I- no. Not at you.”

Sylvain nods, but Ingrid’s not looking at him. “At Mercie then?”

Her head whips to look at him, and he realizes he’s hit the right nerve to get her to talk.

“No. At this. At the stupid war and the games we have to play because of what might happen or because we can’t really make any promises right now can we? Fuck, Sylvain.”

Sylvain’s hand weaves into hers when she says  _ promise _ . It should have been obvious to him what she was scared of. That putting something to them is a step too far in the face of so much uncertainty. Ingrid’s always thrived in control, and there’s so much impossible to grasp now. All he can do is promise anyway.

“We can make some,” he says, slowly, low, squeezing her hand. “We can promise that we’ll fight next to each other. We can promise to make sure we’re not hurt.”

Sylvain trails off for a minute before continuing.

“We can promise to keep Mercedes safe, too.”

Neither of them speak for a few minutes as Ingrid absorbs his words.

“Are we just using her?” Ingrid says eventually, breaking the silence.

He can see how it could happen. A way to hurt each other, using Mercedes’ body as a proxy, or a way of hurrying to get them to where they’re not ready for. But Sylvain doesn’t think so -- the hurt he feels isn’t because of Ingrid or Mercedes. It’s from not being there for the both of them.

“I... I like her, Ingrid.” He confesses. “I want to care for her.”

Ingrid nods, then the side of her head comes to rest on his shoulder “Me too.” 

* * *

They sit in silence for another few minutes, a familiar and comfortable one as Sylvain shuts his eyes and savors the sound of Ingrid’s breathing. 

“So how was it?” Sylvain asks. It’s peaceful, sitting next to Ingrid after her temper’s cooled. It feels like sunrise, when she’s weathered the worst of herself and gives him the privilege of being next to her. 

“How was what?” Ingrid looks over, confused, and figures it out from the look on his face. “Oh.”

“Be honest,” he says, when Ingrid looks away with a blush on her cheek. 

“She’s better with her mouth than you,” Ingrid says.

Sylvain quirks an eye. 

“Ouch,” he says nonchalantly. 

Ingrid shrugs. “You asked.”

There’s a change in Ingrid’s breathing. When she’s mad, she takes deep, full breaths to fuel her fire. But afterwards, when she’s calmed and peaceful, her breathing slows and he can see the rise and fall of her chest. 

Between that and the growing blush on Ingrid’s cheek as she remembers her night with Mercedes, Sylvain thinks he has some room to tease.

“I was hoping for something more sapphic,” he says, palming the top of her thigh and scratching gently with his middle finger. Ingrid scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“What, did you want me to tell you that she ate me out against the beam in the middle of her tent?”

It’s Sylvain’s turn to blush, as Ingrid’s hand finds its way over his arm. Her hand grips his bicep, squeezing gently to steady him and remind him that he’s lost his breath at the mental image of Ingrid, spread legged and shaking.

“Yes,” he says breathlessly.

Sylvain’s familiar with Ingrid’s many vocal tones. Over the years he’s been scolded and complimented, and comforted by her, and he’s grown used to how she’s feeling underneath her words.

There’s a voice she uses in particular when she wants him to focus on her, and few other things send him into heat the way it does. 

“Why don’t you tell me how it was for you?” she says, voice airy and teasing. She leans towards him, sternum pressed against his shoulder.

Sylvain’s eyes go wide. “Uh…”

“Afraid you’ll say something I won’t like?” she asks.

“Afraid you’ll like it…” Sylvain confesses.

Ingrid crawls over onto his lap. “Tell me.”

Sylvain gulps. “I’ll trade you.”

Ingrid smiles and twists, one leg draping over his. “Okay. You first.”

She draws a slow line from his throat to his chest, stopping just where his skin meets his shirt. Sylvain sucks in a breath.

“I… she. I tried to go down on her and she beat me to it.”

“ _ Beat you _ to it, huh?” Ingrid says.

Sylvain nods. “She sat on my bed and apparently she’s just tall enough…”

“Tall enough for what?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath again, face burning. “She sucked me off till she couldn't breath. Deeper than you go,” Sylvain added, earning him a flick on the cheek.

“Is that so?”

“It’s your turn Ing,” he says, trying to take back ground.

Ing blushes. “I already told you. She ate me out before I could even get my skirt off.”

Sylvain takes the moment to pull Ingrid onto his lap. “And what exactly made her mouth better for you than mine?”

“Probably the same reason it was for you,” is her reply, and Sylvain snorts.

“You didn’t get caught? I know you get loud sometimes…” he says, trailing his hands underneath Ingrid’s shirt, right along her ribcage.

Ingrid pales. “She…”

“She what?” Sylvain’s hand slip higher, cupping Ingrid’s breasts from inside of her shirt.

“She put my panties in my mouth to shut me up,” Ingrid admits. Her face is bright red and Sylvain is kissing her before she can even finish the sentence.

Ingrid readjusts on his lap, and moves her arms around the back of his neck.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” Sylvain says, trying hard not to picture the additional detail. Ingrid’s hips sit flush against his, and his voice comes out shakier than he means.

“Me neither.” Ingrid strips her shirt and gives her hair a shake, and Sylvain takes the cue to take his own off. The candles in the room aren’t lit, and Ingrid’s room is cold, so goosebumps fill his arms and chest as the chilly air hits his skin. Ingrid reaches behind him to pull a blanket over her shoulders.

“I fucked her face down into my bed,” Sylvain mutters, grinding his hips up against Ingrid. Her hands are still on his shoulders, and his hands dig into the crease of her thigh, slipping his thumbs underneath her trousers. “I’ve missed that.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow at the indirect comparison, and Sylvain thinks for a second that she might consider it, too. Ingrid’s always taken the lead between the two of them. Despite his experience, Sylvain finds it more intimate to let Ingrid explore and play and test what it is she wanted from him. And, knowing Ingrid’s demeanor, he’s more than happy to.

A reversal in their dynamic would be interesting, but Ingrid makes no move to budge from the position she’s in. Instead, she pulls one of Sylvian’s hands to rub her breast. Her cold hand leaves a cold red mark on his chest, and she trails down to touch his stomach.

Sylvain doesn't compare his body to the others, but over the years his body’s found the right ratio of muscle. He’s not as burly as Dimitri or Dedue, nor as slim and lean as Ashe and Felix. But between the cold Gautier temperament, and being the only cavalier out of their commanders, Sylvain’s built to take hits.

Ingrid runs her hands right over the strong, formed muscles of his core and his hips before sitting up to tug his trousers down. Then, she stands over him, waiting.

It was a thing that she liked for him to do sometimes, to strip her with his teeth. Whether for the sense of control or because she likes the sight of Sylvain underneath her, Sylvain doesn’t really care. Instead, he focuses on biting the soft fabric of her trousers and underclothes down to her mid thigh, paying careful attention to the satisfied sigh that slips out when his lips touch her skin.

When her pants are down low enough to step out of, Ingrid sinks back onto his lap.

She rides him like this - against the foot of her bed, his back flat against the hard wooden trunk containing most of Ingrid’s things, legs scratching against the rough tarp that made up her floor.

Ingrid moves slow at first, savoring his length inside of her, rocking slowly against him. Sylvain kisses the side of her neck and his hands wrap around to cup the back of her hips, guiding her movement.

One of Ingrid’s hands wraps into his hair and pulls his head to the side, so that she can put her lips right up against his ear. The feeling of lips on his earlobe sends fire down Sylvain’s neck.

“After she fucked me with her fingers,” Ingrid pants out, other hand pinching a nipple and slipping lower, to where her body and Sylvian’s met, “she rode my face till she came over and over again.”

Sylvain kisses her hard again, trying to imagine the sight, and Ingrid moans as he bites her lip. His hips advance on their own, bringing the pace up as he tried to imagine the way Mercedes rolled her own hips into Ingrid, sending a sweet wave of pleasure through his core.

With one hand on her clit, and the other in Sylvain’s hair, dragging his kisses down her neck and collar, it doesn’t take long for Ingrid to crescendo. She slows the pace down, riding out the slow roll of her orgasm and lets Sylvain muffle her with another kiss. It’s his favorite sound, to hear Ingrid coming against his body.

“Beautiful,” Sylvain whispers in between her muffled cries. “Gorgeous.”

She meets him in the eye when she catches her breath, and smiles the way she does when she’s got one over on him and knows it. It’s a dangerous sight, because he’s still inside her, cock attentive to the fact that she’s just come around him.

“I have a plan,” she says, voice sultry against his ear. “Want to hear it?”

“Yes,” Sylvain says. The wide  _ oh _ of her face as she came, and the sound of her breath against his ear, is more than enough to bring him close, and he’s desperate for her to continue.

“I’ll tell you,” she says, letting her hips fall so that Sylvain’s buried into her, hip flush against hip. “But I want you to come for me first.”

Each muscle around his hips flex in sequence, and his core jerks as Sylvain’s orgasm rolls through him, seized by the way Ingrid’s body engulfs him. His eyes roll into the back of his head as the familiar fiery ache detonates in his stomach, and Ingrid has to gently touch the side of his face to bring him back.

He slumps onto Ingrid’s shoulders, panting.

“So what’s the plan?” he manages.

* * *

Mercedes barely talks to the pair until the latest battle’s spoils have been settled. Victory after victory, much to Dimitri’s dismay, requires much of their logistics officers, and of the Blue Lions, Sylvain and Dimitri are the most suited and experienced. The rest of them mull around, taking care of their battalions and drafting plans for their next offensive.

It’s been so busy that she’s scarcely run into Sylvain and Ingrid. She’d be worried, but those few moments have been more reassuring than anything else. One afternoon, Ingrid takes her by the hand and kisses her hard against the side of the stables, grinning when they broke and whispering some vague promise of soon.

She catches Sylvain’s hand wandering towards her during a meeting, and manages to  _ accidentally _ brush up against him. He, too, smiles knowingly, and between the two, the signs build up a giddy anticipation that  _ something  _ is going to happen once they settle their present responsibilities. 

It’s been half a year since Mercedes has looked forward to anything, and for once she lets herself enjoy the feeling - stealing glances at the pair when she could, playing their teasing game whenever there was a moment they were out of sight.

She has her hands shoved between her skirt and her underclothes when they come into her tent, announcing themselves with a soft knock and the sound of her name.

She scarcely has time to roll over in her bedroll and try to make herself presentable. Mercedes is not the kind of woman that permits herself to fantasize. Not often - not ever. When they were still in the officer’s academy, piety took the place of fantasy; now, worry and duty took up moments where she wasn't sleeping or fighting or eating.

Ever since her separate nights with Ingrid and Sylvain, though, she’s found it simple to play back their encounters and let her body have some semblance of comfort outside of sleep.

The pair fly into her tent before she can get her hands free, and Sylvain comes to sit behind her, settling her in the space in between his legs. His arms, bare after he sheds his coat, wrap over the top of hers and keep them in place, and she can feel his breath tickle the side of her neck.

Mercedes is already blushing, but the sight of Ingrid, kneeling in front of her and placing her palms on Mercedes’ thighs sends a bright red tinge to her cheek.

“Can I help you,” she asks, as Sylvain begins to nuzzle the back of her neck.

“We thought it might be good to have a chat,” Sylvain replies. “After Ingrid and I talked about you.”

Just the light touches sends a wave of heat through her, intensified by the way she was already giving attention between her legs.

“You wer- ah, talking about me?” Her voice comes out more jittery than she expects.

“Oh yes,” Ingrid replies, as a hand moves to cup Mercedes’ face. Ingrid’s thumb pulls back on her bottom lip, and she can see the glossy look in Ingrid’s eye. “We noticed how stressed out you’ve been, with all of the work we’ve had.”

“We want to help,” Sylvain adds. “Can we?”

Sylvain’s hands grip her wrists and slowly remove them from her skirts, and an embarrassing blush finds its way to her cheeks.

“What do you say?” Ingrid says, hands gently caressing the curve of her shoulder, massaging the sore knots that have built up over the week. 

If they’re offering, there’s no reason to decline, and at this point in their teasing, Mercedes is desperate for it. She’s held out hope that they had plans for her and weren’t stringing her along for their own sake, and now, with the two of them so close, can’t help but nod. 

“Yes please,” Mercedes replies. “Yes.”

Sylvain holds her in his arms while Ingrid pulls her skirts down, then Ingrid bends down to kiss just above her knee while Sylvain strips her loose sleep tunic off. Sylvain’s hands are warm and far too moderate. They brush against her ribcage, her neck, his fingers trace her collarbone and tease her earlobe, but it takes ages for him to palm her breasts. 

Sylvain gets her earlobe in between his lips as he finally cups her chest, and Mercedes sighs and digs her back into his chest, pronouncing her bust for him to touch.

It’s distracting enough that she doesn’t notice the way Ingrid’s spread her legs and pushed her back so that she’s half resting against Sylvain, back leaning against him, hips jutted out just enough that Ingrid can nip the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh.

Mercedes feels a heady haze as four hands and two sets of lips descend upon her. It’s hard to know where to pay attention - at once, Sylvain pinches her nipples and Ingrid’s tongue gives an exploratory touch of her core, and Mercedes moans into Sylvain’s other hand, where his thumb is pulling on the corner of her lips.

Each touch is a jolt of electricity, shocking her and stealing her attention in a dozen places at once.

Ingrid’s hands wrap around her thighs as she nestles her head in between Mercedes’ legs, and Mercedes reflexively grabs onto her hair, gripping tighter as Ingrid’s tongue offers a slow, teasing pass. 

Sylvain chuckles behind her as Mercedes lets loose a low moan. “Enjoying this?” he asks, kissing the inside of her neck gently. His cock is hard against her back, and Mercedes leans into it, earning a low exhale from Sylvain.

“Mmm,” Mercedes says, voice sultry. Ingrid’s hands pull her legs open, and Mercedes pushes the blonde woman’s head closer to her. “You are wonderful, Ingrid.” 

Her orgasm builds slowly. Ingrid bites the side of her thigh, prompting Mercedes to squeeze her legs together in an effort to bring Ingrid’s attentions back to where she needs them. Sylvain’s hand reaches around for a moment, curling his fingers into her while Ingrid kisses the crease of her hips. 

“You two…” Mercedes says, letting her head fall back onto Sylvain’s shoulder. 

Sylvain gives her a dirty kiss, and somewhere during it his hands slips out of her to cup her breast again. Mercedes feels the hot, wet graze of Ingrid’s tongue.

She’s kept her eyes closed for the most part, but Sylvain’s other hand cups her jaw and her eyes slowly open. He pulls gently so that Mercedes can look down at the sight of Ingrid in between her legs, green eyes meeting hers, and the image sends her over the edge.

Her hips move involuntarily, and the slow, rolling glow at the pit of her stomach becomes uncontrollable. Mercedes shakes to orgasm, pinning Ingrid’s face to her core as she rubs herself against the dedicated lips pressed against her sex. It’s messy and careless and Mercedes doesn’t care; her body becomes electric as she rides Ingrid’s face to finish.

Sylvain’s arms hold her tight, whispering encouragement into her ear until she calms down enough. Ingrid grins and licks her lips.

“Lay back, Sylvain,” she says. She holds Mercedes’ arms while Sylvain repositions, and crawls to the other side of Sylvain’s body to strip “Turn around, Mercie.”

She does, sitting on Sylvain’s lap facing his torso, while Ingrid sits on her knees, just above Sylvain’s face. His hands wrap around Ingrid’s legs, and for a second Mercedes wonders how Sylvain’s mouth would feel, right after Ingrid’s just eaten her out.

Mercedes doesn’t get the chance to think much, because Ingrid pulls her over so that she’s sitting right against Sylvain’s cock.

If she’d let herself to imagine a night with the two of them, the image would have been of Mercedes watching as a distant third party, fingering herself while the other two made love to each other. Never in her thoughts was the pair focusing their attention on her.

It almost feels shameful, but Mercedes is too far past the ability to feel it. Her body is sensitive to even the cold air in the tent, and the twitch of Sylvain’s cock against her abdomen.

Already breathless, Mercedes watches the smile on Sylvian’s face disappear as Ingrid sinks her hips on him and feels the air building up inside her lungs before she forces herself to exhale.

Ingrid still hasn’t let go of her hands; the shorter woman pulls her again until she’s hovering just over Sylvain’s cock, the head of him tantalizingly close. Ingrid smiles and nods and pulls her arms down and Mercedes lets herself sink.

It’s different, being on top of Sylvain - he fills her differently, an aching, slow stretch instead of the deep, rough thrusts from their single night together. She rolls slowly over him, letting her body get used to the feeling.

Mercedes can feel Sylvain’s muffled moans, and she leans over to kiss Ingrid as she rides, savoring the way Ingrid’s voice breaks into small mewls each time Sylvain’s tongue lashes at the woman’s core.

She realizes, halfway to another orgasm, that her actions on Sylvain’s cock have an effect on the way his mouth moves against Ingrid. When she fucks him slowly, his tongue speeds up, as if making up for the lack of friction; conversely, when she speeds up, she can feel his stomach go tight as he tries to control himself.

Mercedes thinks she can use this to her advantage - between their ambush and the way they’ve focused on making her the center of attention, Mercedes wants to catch the sight of one of them losing control.

She breaks a long kiss with Ingrid by grabbing the other woman’s hair, pulling down so that Ingrid stares up at the ceiling; her other hand reaches down to touch Ingrid’s clit as Mercedes slows her hips down to sluggish drag. Sylvain whimpers underneath, and his grip on Ingrid’s hips dig into her skin.

Ingrid comes when Mercedes rubs her clit in slow circles, and Mercedes can feel her own legs shaking from the long tease she’s put herself through. Sylvain’s hands release Ingrid and move to Mercedes’ hips, and Ingrid slides off, kneeling next to Mercedes and wrapping both arms around her body.

“It’s your turn,” she says, whispering into Mercedes’ ear, and the way she uses her voice is almost enough.

Ingrid’s hands wrap around her hips, and Mercedes feels the soft press of Ingrid’s breasts against her shoulder. Ingrid returns the favor, rubbing Mercedes’ clit as Sylvain’s hands guide her hips into his thrusts. 

The way they work together, too, almost sends her over the edge, but Mercedes holds out, savoring the moment. They may never do this again, and Mercedes wants to remember every bit of the joy and anticipation that they’ve given her.

They must notice, because Sylvain slows down, and Ingrid’s lips hover just over Mercedes’ ear.

“Come for us,” she whispers, and Mercedes almost does, squeezing every muscle in her hips to hold herself. 

In the end, it’s their words that bring her to climax. 

For months, the creeping grey of burnout, of war and death and ambiguity and worry has infected Mercedes, and it’s been nearly impossible to hold onto the little moments of joy. She’s tried to savor every bit she can - the meals together, the way Sylvain and Ingrid have flirted with her and taken care of her and let her into whatever it is that they’ve always had going on.

It builds in the way the both of them look at her, hands on her hips and the small of her back and the peak of her breast, reassuring and nodding and  _ goddess they really want me here _ , and it bursts when Ingrid whispers in her ear again.

“We’ll protect you,” Ingrid says, and Mercedes can tell it’s a promise. They’ve protected her on the battlefield plenty of times, and they’ve welcomed her into their bed. But, Mercedes realizes a second before Ingrid’s hand drags her over the edge, this was a promise of something that they couldn’t say yet - not until the war is over and it was in their power to keep promises.

Mercedes’ whole body shudders as she comes, and Ingrid’s hand has to cover her mouth to keep her satisfied screams from waking up the whole row of tents. She squeezes her eyes shut as her eyes roll back, and stars appear in her periphery. Her whole body burns, sweaty and shivering and hot and cold at once, and every muscle writes in pleasure as Sylvain hits her deepest point.

Ingrid’s whispering encouragement in her ear and helps guide her to lay down on Sylvain’s shoulders, breath heaving and body nearly limp. She vaguely registers Ingrid finishing Sylvain off with her hand, lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and shuts her eyes to the sound of Sylvain’s grunts and the feeling of his hand wrapped around Mercedes’ shoulder as he comes.

Ingrid comes to lay on the other side of her as a sleepy haze floats over her.

“There’s room for you here as long as you need it,” Ingrid says, and Sylvain nods.

“We’re here for you.”

Mercedes falls asleep tucked in between her lovers, peaceful and secure. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment please this is embarrassing AF......
> 
> and please tell me if I need to tag something i haven't!! 
> 
> sothis forgive me


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